of things ending.

I’m sitting with the sadness of things ending.   

                  We sat together the last few weeks of college when everything all at once felt inescapably frantic and yet as though the moments were being drawn out in slow motion. Then, before that, we sat together the last few golden days of high school, when the joy of possibility before me held hands with the fear of the unknown and the comfort of the past.

                  Most recently, though most briefly, we sat together as I left New York after five years of calling the place home.

                  This sadness is not a depressive one, nor do I find it gloomy, or even like that of grief. Instead, it verges on nostalgic, strangely familiar, almost wistful, as if I’m trying to grab on to every frantic-slow-motion moment as it passes.

                  And I know why.

My job is ending.

                  I imagine for many of you, the end of a job is a welcome relief, a release from frustration and struggle and general exasperation, coupled with the thrill of what’s next whispering in your ear.

                  My “what’s next” hasn’t presented itself yet, and that’s perfectly alright. I learned many years ago also to sit with the discomfort of uncertainty, not unlike Forrest Gump at that bus stop as stranger after stranger joins him on the bench.

                  But my job is ending. More than six years of five days a week, nine hours a day. A smattering of vacation here and there but on the whole, the better part of my twenties has been with this company. Six years of extraordinary personal and professional growth. Six years of catastrophic failure and mistakes. Six years of my life.

                  I think part of the sadness is that I am not sure I will fully know myself without this job. To say that feels silly, but we grow around the parts of life that feel safe, not unlike ivy around a brick building. The bricks provide the stability and support that the ivy needs. Rip the ivy away from its hold and what is it? It withers.

                  Dramatics aside, I obviously will not wither, but I will probably stand for a time with my hands at my side wondering what I’m supposed to do next. This job was not an ordinary job. These people are my emergency contacts. I’ve gone to their weddings. I’ve slept in their homes and apartments and endured every maddening and wonderful and silly and stupid thing that’s come our way. I’ve come to know their pets and partners and parents. I’ve stayed up late and gotten up early for them.

                  That is not every job.

                  There is a stillness in the air and time moves strangely. Like she’s waiting, holding her breath. For me? I’m not sure.

                  So once again, here I sit with the sadness of things ending. We’re old friends now. Once again, we watch the clock tick down.

But I count myself lucky to have started the clock at all.